A slow death no one deserves (final draft)

“The siren would wake the whole building, as I would hold the door open for the paramedics, pouring into the apartment like the glucose gel I forced into his mouth earlier,” Lars said. “No effect.

“He promised me one packet would do the trick if he dropped, 10 units if he spiked, but nothing happened. He just lay there on the bathroom floor. The twitching stopped ten minutes ago. I think he’s in a coma, but I’m not sure. That’s why I called 9-1-1. And why they’re asking me questions about peanut butter and bread and orange juice. Why when he stopped shaking, I started to.”

“It can’t be that bad,” I tell Lars, “he wouldn’t let it get to that point.” But I can tell he doesn’t buy it. He can’t. He has too much empirical evidence to support fraternal worry and concern.

Like two days ago, having to wake him to eat food. News to me.

But why wouldn’t he bring something like that up? I’m his support system, I thought. The only one around here. The only person who can talk about endocrinologists and studies and articles in emails sent by our parents or from the Google news feed we both set up. I’ve mentioned the islet cell results from the U.K. and he just smiles and rolls his drooping eyes.

“I don’t think he has a choice. It just happens,” Lars muses. “It’s like his body has finally decided to end it. Out of pity or something.”

20-years will do that. But he’s always taken care of himself. I mean, beside the outpatient laser eye surgery in December he hasn’t shown any of the tell tale signs of a body giving up. No loss of feeling in the feet or hands. That can’t be it.

“I’m not supposed to tell you about this stuff,” Lars pauses. “Don’t tell him I told you.”

“Of course.”
“He…it’s happened five times since we moved in.”
“He’s dropped five times!”
“Yeah,” there’s another pause, “maybe Chicago just doesn’t agree with him.” He laughs uneasily.

He goes on with four other stories, including having to crawl in through a window to get to him as Lars forgot the keys and his phone in the apartment. He needs to get it out. Let someone who understands hear. But there’s not much I can do. I only dropped once, in Texas, and I don’t remember who called the ambulance or paramedics and who let them in. Or where my uncle came from. Or why my phone was across the room, on the floor, below a dent in the wall. He doesn’t need that story though, or other mildly entertaining/depressing medical mishaps. He just needs me to sit there, so I do.

“I feel like I'm waiting for Jeremy to die lately,” but he hasn’t yet.

But he might soon. And now I see it.